


angelica & forget-me-nots

by dismaltemperament



Category: The School for Good and Evil - Soman Chainani
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Multi, Sharing a Bed, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tags May Change, YARA IS ALIVE AND THRIVING AND SO IS NICHOLAS, established hicola at the beginning, inspired by another fic, it doesnt last long, or post-tagatha wedding at the very least, rated t for cussing and some sexual references, so does yara's, sophie's trauma plays a role in this, tagatha honeymoon(???), tagatha wedding!!!, this is gay af
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismaltemperament/pseuds/dismaltemperament
Summary: Two and a half years after the war against Rafal, Agatha and Tedros get married. On their wedding night, a curse befalls the guests attending the after party, although "curse" may be putting it lightly. It's a soulmate spell, designed to steer the recipient in the direction of their destined soulmate.While Agatha and Tedros are happily in love, as much can't be said for their friends. Drama, chaos, kisses, and pain ensures.Let's just hope our heroes don't kill each other in the process of finding true love.
Relationships: Agatha/Tedros (The School for Good and Evil), Anadil/Hester (The School for Good and Evil), Beatrix/Kiko (The School for Good and Evil), Bogden/Willam (The School for Good and Evil), Chaddick/Nicholas/Yara (The School for Good and Evil), Hort/Ravan (The School for Good and Evil), Nicola/Sophie (The School for Good and Evil)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69





	angelica & forget-me-nots

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Wrong Potion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18383129) by [Hester_Of_Ravenswood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hester_Of_Ravenswood/pseuds/Hester_Of_Ravenswood). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE READ** : I rewrote the first two chapters! Because I hated them. Now chapter one is triple the length and the fic as a whole has something of a proper outline, meaning better structure and pacing in the future. But enough of that. 
> 
> It's necessary you read the improved chapters in order to understand the plot from here on out. I've added and changed numerous factors from the original. 
> 
> If this is your first time reading _A &FMN_, thank you! Prepare for angst.

“Love, it’s our _wedding day._ ”

“That’s true, _love._ Doesn’t change the fact that I have two left feet.”

He takes her by the chin and forces her to look at him. She tries to resist and push him away, only for him to plant himself in her lap.

Her neck rashes and she whips around, but then Tedros puts his hand on her cheek and she can’t help but sink back into him. It’s stupid, it’s sappy, but it’s true.

“No one’s watching us,” he promises, gazing at her with hooded eyes and a half-smirk like he’s tipsy. “No one cares if you’ve got three left feet or what. One dance. That’s all I ask.”

She starts to mutter out a defensive one-liner, but it dies in her throat.

Her eyes rake over Tedros’s features. His crystal blue eyes, his parted lips; she thinks about the feel of his hand on her and his thighs encasing her waist. He’s so _beautiful_ —Agatha used to be scared of beautiful things because she thought they were fickle and fleeting and would disintegrate under her harsh stare if she looked at them for too long. 

Now she knows better.

“One dance,” she says. “That’s all you get.”

Tedros grins. “Better make it count, then.”

He pulls her to the center of the dance floor and the orchestra starts playing a slow tune. They fall into a steady rhythm, swaying to the beat. Tedros is taking it slow because of her inexperience, no doubt; it’s not like she didn't take ballroom dancing lessons, though—problem is, her teacher was Pollux (yes, the one from school), and you can imagine how talented a humanoid dog with chicken legs is at dancing. They were worried about more important things financially, and Pollux was the best they could do.

Traditionally, a bride should be able to dance formally with her groom, especially if he’s king of the most powerful kingdom in the Woods, but if Agatha and Tedros had been a pair that stuck to tradition, they wouldn’t be here in the first place. _Here_ as in the after party of their wedding.

She can’t believe it, either, but it still feels like a long time coming. There’s been talk of them marrying since they were sixteen; Agatha’s well past overthinking that. But to think that _they,_ Agatha the Reader and her unconventional royal boyfriend, could actually have a normal wedding with little-to-no error? Damn near unfathomable. 

Back to the dancing—the third time Tedros twirls her, he pulls her flush against him before spinning her all the way around, her back meeting his chest. She begins to panic—this isn’t a familiar move—but he holds her hands by his waist and puts his head on her shoulder, murmuring, “Don’t worry”, and it’s all she can do to not burst with warmth for him.

“Shouldn’t this be the other way around? Considering your, uh, height disadvantage?” Agatha snarks, eyes to the ground.

She expects to get a rise, but he just laughs. “Would you like to switch places?”

She thinks about having to lead the dance with her lack of skill and very quickly says, “No.” He laughs again.

They dance like this for a bit, swaying against each other, and Agatha can almost relax. She shuts her eyes, tilts her head back, and… 

That’s when she hears Sophie scream. 

The music cuts off and Agatha and Tedros pull apart. They whirl around to find Sophie tucked in a corner of the ballroom, ramrod straight as she clutches her right hand. Then she looks up and sees everyone staring at her, servants included.

“Oh, it’s just a splinter. Honestly, these chairs are all so old—it’s a wonder they haven’t collapsed on anyone yet.” She waves her audience off. “Go back to your celebrating, dears. Nothing to see here.” 

She daintily hops from her chair, fluffing the skirts of her dress before marching out of the room altogether. The music starts and everyone goes back to dancing, but Agatha’s still frozen.

Someone who hasn’t spent half their life in Sophie’s shadow would assume there’s nothing amiss. Agatha, on the other hand, knows Sophie would never pass up an opportunity to have the attention on her, regardless of it being her best friend’s wedding day.

Agatha and Tedros exchange a look. She already knows he’s coming.

* * *

They find Sophie sitting cross-legged on a fainting sofa in the hallway, frantically stringing her fingers together in her lap.

“So, are you going to tell us what that was all about, or are we going to have to force it out of you?” Agatha asks, plopping down on Sophie’s right.

Sophie narrows her eyes. “Sarcasm isn’t a great look on the bride, Aggie.”

“I disagree,” Tedros chimes in as he swoops to Sophie’s left. “And considering I’m the one marrying her, I think my opinion outweighs yours.”

Sophie isn’t entertained by their banter. If anything, she seems tired. That’s new. Sure, she worked her ass off preparing this wedding, but just an hour ago she was over the moon taking shots with Kiko. Perhaps she’s crashing.

“You screamed, Sophie.”

“I know.”

“And…?”

“Isn’t a girl allowed to let out her pent-up stress through visible rage every now and then?”

“Not when you’re the witch of Woods Beyond, no. It isn’t advised,” Tedros cuts in.

Both girls give him a look. But then he smiles all big and wide, and Agatha can’t help but smile back. _When I get him alone_ —

Sophie holds up her right hand. “Do you have any idea what this could be?”

Imprinted on Sophie’s palm is the letter _A_ in elegant script. Simple as it sounds, as though it’s always been there. The skin appears to have molded itself so that indentions in the palm depict the letter. 

And that’s when Agatha feels it.

A pain flares in her hand—on her right palm, just like Sophie. Her skin begins to curdle and morph right before her eyes, stretching and thinning, until letters begin to form— _D, R, O_ —and when it subsides, her palm reads _TEDROS_ , same script as Sophie.

As soon as it finishes, it’s as though nothing happened. The design looks natural, just another part of her flesh. She traces over it with her fingers—yup, all skin. The indentions are too tiny to fit her nail into (probably because she bites them), but they don’t appear to be open wounds. It’s completely macabre and would totally be Agatha’s style if it weren’t so damn strange. 

She holds up her hand for the other two. Tedros is curious while Sophie’s unreadable, cold; whatever she’s feeling is off the map entirely. Tedros’s brows crinkle and he begins to speak, only to clamp his mouth shut as his eyes go wide.

“What’s—?”

Agatha watches him grab his hand—yes, his right hand—and she leans over to get a better look. She sees him grit his teeth as _AGATHA_ is written out on his skin, identical to the way it was for Agatha and Sophie.

When it stops, he’s quiet. He slowly turns to her, bewildered. Neither know what to say—

“What the hell is that supposed to me?” Sophie barks, tone dripping with annoyance. 

Not a soul has a chance to respond before the door to the ballroom slams open. Out stomps Hester, Anadil in tow. They’re both in black because why wouldn’t they be, although Anadil actually accepted the dress Sophie tailored for her, unlike Hester, who’s wearing a clashing, tacky suit that's two sizes big. The latter is unfazed as ever, while the former seems… concerned? Upset? Hester, _nervous_? That can’t be good. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Hester says, running a hand through her done-up hair, “but we’ve got a problem.”

* * *

Tedros should've predicted that the universe would be working against him tonight.

That’s the only explanation, surely. Whatever higher powers are out there must be real cocky if they’re willing to pull this bullshit on his wedding day. 

He had foolishly let himself believe that, just this once, things would go off without a hitch. He should’ve known nothing comes that easy when you’re the king of Camelot and your wife is Good’s greatest hero. 

Right now he’s leaning against the balcony that overlooks the ballroom from the top of the staircase where, just a few hours ago, Agatha and his names were being announced to a crowd of their friends. _King Tedros and Queen Agatha of Camelot._ It was like music to his ears.

He and his wife are once again being overlooked by their friends, but it’s under very different circumstances. Servants are sweeping up the ballroom, and everyone is sitting on the floor unless they were lucky enough to snag a chair from the back wall. They’re all in groups: the Coven, Hort and Nicola, his knights, the Evergirls, Sophie (she got a chair), and more. They chatter quietly among themselves, paying him little mind.

He inhales, taps the magic amplifying chip on his collar to make sure it’s working, then starts.

“So… hey guys. This isn’t what I thought I’d be doing on my wedding night, if you know what I mean.”

Nobody laughs. Actually, they just look uncomfortable now. He thinks he sees Agatha face-palming in the corner. 

“Hah, hah. Okay. Sorry.” He gulps. “We’ve already established that this isn’t one of you, right? Not a prank or a wedding gift gone wrong? Looking at you, Hort.”

That one earns a laugh or two. Not much, but something. He stands straighter.

“In case anyone’s confused, I’ll lay it out for you: about an hour ago, for some unforeseen reason, letters began to imprint themselves on people’s skin. Specifically, the palm on their right hand. The number of letters varies, but Agatha and I are the only ones with full names. Is that correct?”

No one objects. Good, good.

“Alright, I know everyone’s tired, but we need to get to the bottom of this as fast as possible. Nicola, I want you to head to the library and see what you can find in terms of curses or enchantments pertaining to these ailments. Nicholas can join them. Chaddick, alert the guards that no one is leaving Camelot until we get to the bottom of this. Sophie, up here, I need to see you—and everyone else is free to go. Yara, escort them to the guest wing, then meet us in the library.”

There’s plenty of grumbling once he finishes, but Tedros tunes them out. Efficiency is their best way of squashing this thing before it overtakes them. 

He wonders briskly if this is happening because he lifted the ban on magic in Camelot. Of course it added an extra layer of threat, but it was a risk they had to take; magic is Agatha’s most powerful ally, after all. 

It’s times like these he wishes he had his father around. Or anyone, really—the adults he used to go to for advice have all passed on now. He’s an adult, technically, so shouldn’t need a mentor’s guidance, he doesn’t think, but he still wishes he had someone to assure him he’s not messing everything up.

“Y’know, I kind of like you all authoritative.”

At which point he remembers, _I have Agatha._

Tedros looks up. She’s sitting on the carpet, back against the wall, clumps discarded to the side as she pets Reaper, who’s clawing at her dress. (The _dress,_ oh Lord—she had to fight tooth and nail with the tailors to wear that knee-length off-the-shoulder piece, designed specifically for flexibility, and he couldn’t be more happy about it.) He steps into the overhang, suddenly overcome by a feeling of aloneness. Despite the two years they’ve had together in Camelot, this is something rare. It was considered too scandalous to share a bedroom prior to the wedding, unbecoming to even be in a room alone together during hours of the day, but now… that’s not the case anymore, is it?

Agatha gets to her feet and he makes his way over; they communicate without words. They’re in each other’s arms in seconds, crowding into a dark corner behind the curtains. He pushes her against the wall, an instinct in the pit of his stomach kicking in, and she leans down to kiss his neck. She’s only got an inch in height on him barefoot, but she still loves to abuse her advantage. (He won’t admit that he likes it too.)

“Why can’t things ever be easy for us?” he whispers.

“Because then we’d be boring old monarchs who do nothing but bless babies and make poor political decisions, and then where would we be?” she says.

“We’d have more time to kiss,” he mutters before kissing her deeply, tasting the earthly, herbal flavor on her tongue.

“Please save the petting for after hours, darlings,” comes Sophie’s voice.

They don’t bother pulling apart, just glance in her direction and cease kissing for the sake of modesty. (If it were up to him, he’d still be kissing her; he just knows she isn’t the presentational type. His hands stay on her hips, though.)

Sophie’s leaning against the wall by the grand doors, filing her nails with the announcement scroll listing the guests’ names.

“That was the plan before you decided to give yourself a freaky tattoo,” he snaps at her, but he only means it harmlessly and grins right after. Agatha shifts against him, so he takes a step away and pats down his tunic as she pulls up the neckline of her dress, flushing. 

Sophie shrugs, now opting to observe her hand with resignation, an expression Tedros isn’t used to seeing on her. She looks so _sad,_ so un-Sophie-like, and it makes him uncomfortable, so he quickens to say: “You’re the most powerful sorceress in the Woods, Sophie. Have you ever heard of anything like this?”

“Once,” she mumbles, eyes downcast. She doesn’t elaborate. 

He peers at Agatha and, sure enough, she’s glaring at him. Okay, what did he do this time? He thought he was being inclusive and kind by asking her up here! Last time he ever does anything for Sophie, then. 

(That’s a lie, and he knows it.)

“I suppose there’s no point in talking around it,” Sophie sighs abruptly, sinking to the ground and melodramatically throwing an arm up. Agatha sits down immediately, eyes trained on Sophie, so Tedros has no choice but to mimic them.

“Notice how you have each other’s names written on you,” Sophie nods toward them. “I studied hundreds of soulmate-identifying spells my first year at school. They aren’t as common as love potions, but tend to be more reliable. That’s not to say they couldn’t be hexed. When I…” She gulps. “When Rafal gave me his ring, it wrote your name on my hand, Tedros. I’d begged my heart to tell me my soulmate, to ensure that I was meant to be with that beast. Obviously, it was a lie meant to send me astray—I prefer taller boys.”

“Hey!” Tedros says, rising—

But the grave expression on Sophie’s face shoots him back down. Her eyes look empty. Devoid. She’s… scared? No, not that—it’s something deeper.

“The wedding party’s been cursed. Or maybe—maybe blessed? I don’t know.”

“So you’re saying that this… spell,” He chooses his words lightly. “This _spell_ is writing the names of our friends’ soulmates on their bodies?”

“That or it’s a trick,” Agatha says. “Except Tedros and I have each other’s names, so…”

Sophie shakes her head. “There’s too many variables to something like this. We’d have to do more research.”

Impulsively, Tedros reaches over and grabs Agatha’s marked hand. He traces the letters grooved on her skin before turning her hand over and softly kissing her knuckles. It doesn’t _feel_ like a curse; it feels like fate, a prophecy. But what does he know about magic?

He’s about to suggest they head to the library and start their research, but when he glances up, Agatha’s face is stoic. He follows her line of vision to Sophie, sullen in her dark little corner.

Tedros doesn’t know all the details of what Sophie went through when she was with Rafal. He’s not even sure Agatha knows the full story—Sophie isn’t one to flaunt her vulnerabilities. This whole thing has to be bringing up bad memories, and what kind of friend would he be if he let her suffer alone?

Still holding onto Agatha, he shuffles closer to Sophie and extends a hand. She looks down at it pointedly—it’s not his marked hand—then up at him. Her eyes, wide and desperate, are asking a question. 

And he says _yes._

She puts her hand in his and he pulls her close. The three of them huddle together in the darkness. (Reaper’s there too, cuddled up against Agatha.)

As much as he’d rather be alone with Agatha, preferably in a bedroom, he keeps his friends close. This can come first. _They_ can come first.

“We’ll figure it out,” Agatha whispers.

“Don’t worry,” Tedros adds.

And they sit in silence for as long as Sophie needs them to.

* * *

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about, personally,” says Willam as they make their way down the hall, following a group of their friends. 

“Uh, right,” Bogden says, shooting him a look. 

Though he hates to admit it, things have been tense between him and his boyfriend recently. They’d chosen to put their arguing aside for the sake of the wedding, but it seems the stiffness is back in full force. 

Respectively, his and Willam’s palms read _WILL_ and _BOG_ _._ He isn’t especially concerned by this. Some explanation would be nice, but honestly? Bogden’s kind of used to being left in the dark.

There’s a mixture of tenseness and confusion in the air. It’s the big wedding night they’ve all been waiting for—shouldn’t they be celebrating with the newly-weds, or at least heading back to their guest rooms to hang out with their own significant others?

He thinks about the first time he met Willam. He was on a field trip with Dean Sophie, visiting Camelot as a first year Never, and he saw him there. Sophie had some business with the head priest and Bogden begged her to take him along so that he could get a glimpse of the castle, and she accepted only because she said his badgering was turning her hair white. He barely spent any time ogling Camelot castle, though; instead, he befriended a red-headed altar boy he couldn’t get off his mind in the weeks following. 

Willam transferred into the School for Good a month later. His sister, Yara, was a graduate of Good and friend of King Tedros, who apparently pulled some strings with Sophie to get Willam in. 

Although Sophie doesn’t _discourage_ friendships with Evers, she doesn’t encourage them, either. But it didn’t matter. Bogden and Willam were _meant to be._

Or so he thought. Honesty, the tension between them is stupid. Bogden initially wrote it off as Willam being stressed over school (he offered to help Willam relinquish it with a smirk on his face, which got him slapped), but this has been going on for nearly a month now—he just wants them to be okay, is that so much to ask?

Well, no point in getting sappy over Willam right now, because Yara’s trying to get his attention. 

“Can you two share a room?” She taps her fingers against the belt on her flowy dress, not meeting their eyes.

Bogden goes red. Yara’s just fulfilling the task Tedros assigned her, but still, it’s gotta be awkward to ask your little brother and his boyfriend… _that._

He turns to Willam— 

“Of course,” Willam says smoothly. 

That settles that, then. 

(Call it a hunch, but something tells him there’s only going to be one bed.)

* * *

Nicola should’ve worn heels to the wedding.

It’s so incredibly stupid, but now she’s wishing more than anything that she’d chosen a pair of heels instead of the flats she’s currently got on. Because if she were wearing heels she’d be able to reach the book on the top shelf.

She also wishes she wore a suit tonight, although that has nothing to do with getting the book. A slim, form-fitting suit appealed to her so much more than the dank, shapeless grey dress she ended up in. And she’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone, but the real reason she wore a dress and flats… well, it was for Hort.

She knows, _she knows;_ molding yourself to make someone attracted to you is never a good thing. That’s one of the many lessons in _The Tale of Sophie and Agatha,_ which she’s studied back and forth like her own personal Bible _._ But it’s not ‘molding’ or changing anything about herself, not really. She just thought he’d appreciate it if his girlfriend wore a dress to the wedding, and judging by the way he’s been eyeing her all night, she was correct. As for the shoes, she’s only a few inches shorter than him, so she’d absolutely tower over him in heels and that would just be awkward. Right?

And speak of the devil—she’s so caught up in her internal lamenting that she doesn’t notice the boy himself sliding up next to her. She jumps when Hort says, “Need a hand?”

She straightens and looks down, arms plastered to her sides. It’s embarrassing, okay? She shouldn’t need help getting a book down from a shelf, but _lo and behold._

“Yeah,” she mumbles, biting back a smile. No, stop that. Why does she want to smile? There’s nothing funny about this.

She glances up just as Hort’s getting the book. She feels her shoulders unclench and she reaches for the volume, only for Hort to snatch it back.

“Maybe for a price.” He gives her a wide, goofy grin, holding the book just above his head. She’s about to snap at him, but then she meets his gaze and sees the way he’s looking at her and… _oh._ That’s why she wanted to smile. For as obnoxious as he can be, Hort is undeniably cute.

He taps his cheek. Audacious bastard. 

She narrows her eyes but plays along, leaning up on her toes as he leans down. She watches his arm sink down as he relaxes, then makes her move.

She grabs the book from him and _bolts._

He lets out a squawk of protest, but she’s already around the corner, laughing and running as fast as her legs will carry her. She isn’t as athletic as she used to be, but as the former captain of the Gavaldon co-ed rugby team, her endurance is unmatched. She ducks into the third row of down and lets out one last strained laugh, clutching the book to her chest.

She’s just teasing him, of course. She’d never actually want to be apart from him, so when she hears him say “Not so fast”, her heart skips a beat.

She looks up, sees Hort on the opposite end of the row. He’s shrouded in shadows, but she’d recognize his figure anywhere. She’s more or less addicted every fact in the fairytale about him to memory, but that’s a story for another time.

Right now he’s approaching her slowly, steadily, like a predator tracking its prey. Her breathing hitches, and she feels excited, expectant. 

When he finally reaches her, he doesn’t go for the book. He stares down at her, carob-hued eyes shining. He pins her to the bookshelf and leans close.

He kisses her. She drops the book—

“Hey, lovebirds,” someone snaps.

She doesn’t want to pull away from him, not in the slightest. He feels reassuring and heartening—she loves the feel of his hands on her and she loves putting her lips on his and she loves, well, she _loves_ —

But they pull apart anyway. Hort nearly jumps away, like he’s absolutely mortified at the thought of being caught. She glances yearningly in his direction for a fraction of a second, then turns to whoever rudely interrupted them.

It’s Sophie, big surprise. Who else has the nerve to bother a couple in the midst of making out?

Nicola crouches to pick the book back up without taking her eyes off Sophie. Not without a hint of dismay, she asks, “Something the matter, Your Highness?”

Sophie glares, hands on her hips. Nicola isn’t sure why she’s so reactive to insults from her; people drag Sophie to her face all the time and it seems to bounce right off her, so why does _Nicola_ bug her so much? Probably some petty Alpha woman shit stemming back to Hort’s old infatuation with her. Whatever. Now’s not the time to psychoanalyze her relationship with Sophie.

“Meeting’s starting. The king needs you two,” Sophie says dryly before spinning on her heel, marching back in the direction of the table where everyone’s gathered to discuss the whole “names suddenly being glued to our hands” thing. But it’s the way Sophie says “the king” instead of Tedros’s name, the way she refuses to directly address Nicola and Hort directly—God, it just pisses her off.

But then Hort puts a hand on her shoulder, warm and familiar, and her worries seem to melt away. She meets his eyes, and he gives a small smile.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

She just grins.

* * *

“You think it’s _what_?” Hort’s gaping at Yara one hour later.

“A soulmate-identifying-spell, and a tricky one at that,” Yara comments idly as she flips through a hulking volume detailing different forms of love spells over the ages, the same one Nicola retrieved only a short while ago. “In theory, more of your soulmate’s name will appear as you grow closer emotionally, and the markings will disappear within days of your “union”, which I guess is marriage or, you know, something else—” She glances up briefly, meeting Nicola’s eyes. Nicola suppresses the urge to roll her own. 

_Yes, Yara, we get the picture._

Out loud, she says, “That doesn’t sound particularly horrible.”

“While, yes, the caster typically has good intentions, this particular spell has been known to cause some ruckus. You know, divorce, cheating, uh, executions, uhm—” Nicholas reads directly from the text over Yara’s shoulder. “I mean, that’s just some of the documented occurrences.”

“How can it be transmitted?” inquires Agatha, who’s been silent as they’ve gone over what the curse or spell or whatever could or could not be, and Nicola would be lying if she said she wasn’t itching to get to her room. Not because she’s tired, exactly, but because, well—

She glances at Hort, who’s hand is on her knee. The inside of that very hand reads _N,_ and, likewise, hers right palm reads _H_. 

It’s crazy, right? But if what Yara and Nicholas are implying is true, Nicola and Hort were destined to be together. Her first boyfriend, her first real crush—he’s her _soulmate._ She’s still wrapping her head around that fact.

Regardless of that, Yara flippantly mentioned that she and Hort would need to share a room while stuck in Camelot, and she’s more than ready to get to the whole “union” part of this thing. She’s _been_ ready for quite some time, but didn’t know how to address it prior.

Yara answers Agatha’s question, snapping Nicola out of her daze: “It can only be cast in solution form, as the spell requires very specific ingredients. Recipients are said to show symptoms soon after the potion enters their bloodstream.”

“Which means it must’ve been in the food we ate earlier, after the ceremony,” Tedros says, stroking his chin.

Yara and Nicholas exchange a look that indicates this isn’t an original thought. Nicholas is the one to say, “Uh, yes, that’s the idea.”

Tedros nods. He and Agatha look like quite the power couple at the head of the table despite how dressed down they are. They’re all business, getting to the point and leeching whatever information they can out of the others. If you lived under a rock and weren’t able to recognize them as the king and queen of Camelot, you might not even realize they’re a couple.

As much can’t be said for Nicola and her boyfriend, who have been cuddled up this entire time.

“What do you think?” Agatha then asks, turning to Sophie on her right. “This sound like your spell?”

“It’s possible.” Sophie’s had her eyes down for most of this meeting, scowling in a way entirely unbecoming of her. Without asking, she reaches over and takes the book from Yara and Nicholas. She scans the pages in what seems to be the most tedious manner ever, and the room hangs on her silence. 

“Well?” Nicola can’t help saying.

Sophie slams the book shut abruptly, successfully startling everyone. She looks up, eyes locking with Nicola. The way she glares at her—it feels like she’s reaching into Nicola’s soul, searching for something, _anything._ Nicola tries to glare back, but she gets lost in the hard glean of Sophie’s emerald eyes—

“This is it,” Sophie says slowly, eyes still dead set on Nicola.

“That settles it, then,” says Tedros, who must not sense the obvious heat in the room. He leans back, crossing his legs and his arms behind his head.

Agatha rolls her eyes from beside him. She asks, “Does the spell have a name?”

“It does,” Sophie says, tearing her eyes away from Nicola to look back down at the book. “But it’s been scratched out. Entirely eligible. This book has been in the Camelot library for centuries—clearly someone didn’t want word of this spell to get out.”

“Well, they did a rubbish job of preventing that,” Tedros gripes.

Nicola can feel the tension lifting up, and almost immediately her fear (is that what you would call it? Her feelings toward Sophie?) is replaced by the excitement flooding her system. 

She says, “We’ve already established that it’s not dangerous, right? Is there really anything more we can do?”

Sophie opens her mouth, no doubt beginning to protest, but Agatha cuts her off. “You’ve got a point. There isn’t much else _to_ do but let the spell accumulate on its own accord. We’ll keep a close watch on everyone until it passes.”

“So… it’s spelling out our soulmate’s name? The letter on our palms?” Hort asks.

“Yup,” Tedros says, although he’s barely even paying attention to them, very busy gazing lovingly at his wife. It _is_ their wedding night, after all; Nicola doesn’t really blame him.

“It may try to trick you, though,” Sophie mumbles, almost as if she doesn’t want to be heard. “If the name hasn’t fully formed, you need to be careful. Who knows what it’ll end up spelling.”

Briskly, Nicola wonders what letter is on Sophie’s hand—

And then she meets Hort’s eyes. He’s looking at her the same way Tedros is Agatha. She feels a rapture, like she might just burst. She loves it when Hort gets like this with her, all carefree and loving. And that’s not to mention the anticipation that’s been circling inside of her.

Everyone begins exchanging goodnights and tidying up their work space. They stand and Hort takes her hand, pulling her nearer, if that’s even possible. 

“Ready to go?” he asks her once more. 

“You know it,” she says, punctuating it with a kiss.

* * *

Yara watches Nicola and Hort dart out of the library together and doesn’t bother trying to ignore the twinge of jealousy. 

Alright, it’s more than a twinge—she’s _extremely_ jealous. 

“Think they’re gonna fuck?” says a voice from behind.

Yara startles and whirls around, only to see Chaddick, who’s grinning wildly as he saunters up to her. 

“What—Chaddick, _no_!” she exclaims, elbowing him, although she can’t stop the blush that rises to her cheeks.

“Stop harassing the fair maiden, Chad,” says Nicholas as he comes up from behind Chaddick. He slings an arm around the other boy’s shoulder and Yara feels her heart drop.

“I’ll show _you_ a fair maiden,” Yara says, placing both her hands on Nicholas’s chest and shoving him back. He gives her a curious look for just a fraction of a section, but then Chaddick starts laughing, so he does, too.

Yara grins up at them so hard her face hurts. She’s feeling a flurry of emotion; warmth, dread, acceptance, isolation, _want_ —

“No, but actually, the way they were eyeing each other was borderline pornographic. I’ve never been close with Hort, but I was a second away from telling him to keep it in his pants,” Chaddick says when he’s calmed down, gazing lazily in the direction Nicola and Hort disappeared in.

“Hey, maybe Nicola was into it. Maybe she wanted it even more,” Yara says, almost on instinct. She immediately gets embarrassed— _Am I seriously having a conversation about a girl wanting sex with Chaddick?_ —but then Nicholas speaks up without missing a beat.

“She’s right, man. You have no idea what’s going on in their heads,” he adds.

“Whatever,” Chaddick makes an indiscernible gesture with one hand, still smiling as he pushes Nicholas off. “Pretty sure I’ve got a good idea of what’s going down in their bedroom right now, though.”

“ _Gross,_ ” both Yara and Nicholas groan at the same time, all to Chaddick’s amusement. He starts to head in the direction of the exit, waving at them from over his shoulder.

“See you losers later,” he calls back.

Nicholas shakes his head, smiling in a small, adoring way. Watching Chaddick skip on out, he says, “I should probably go make sure he doesn’t harass any of the other knights with vague implications of sex.”

Yara feels herself grow hot at the simple, meaningless words. They have absolutely nothing to do with her, but it’s the fact that it’s Nicholas, talking _to her,_ that she flushes. Aside from Sophie, who’s still seething in the far corner of the room for whatever reason, the library is deserted. She’s alone with Nicholas, something that rarely happens.

This is probably the moment where she should come clean: she’s got a _huge_ crush on Nicholas. She has since their fourth year of school, when they got assigned a quest to restore the Lady of the Lake’s sanctuary in Avalon, which had fallen to ruins over the years. The legendary Lady never did greet them as they worked, and honestly, Yara’s grateful for that; the time she spent alone with Nicholas… it was _amazing._ They got close discussing simple, trivial things in the cold, until the conversations steered toward Nicholas’s uncertain future and Yara’s identity. They connected, and she felt he properly _understood_ her. So she developed a pesky little crush, yes, and started coming up with excuses to hang around Camelot, seeing as Nicholas went on to become a knight for Tedros.

And now the letter _N_ is on her hand.

It doesn’t mean much, doesn’t really _assure_ anything other than her soulmate has an _N_ in his name, but it’s enough to give her hope. If only she _knew,_ if only she had something to make a promise to—

Nicholas is now staring at her, eyes clouded with confusion.

Oh. _Right._

“Yeah, you should probably catch up with him,” she laughs nervously, scratching her neck.

He brightens without hesitation and says, “Tomorrow?”

He poses it like a question, but it _feels_ like a promise. Tomorrow they’ll see each other again. Tomorrow they’ll still be friends. 

“Tomorrow.” 

He grins and gives her a wave before turning in Chaddick’s direction. It happens so quickly, she almost misses it—

_K_ _._

The letter on his hand. It says… it means…

_K_ _._

He’s not…

He’s not her soulmate.

She feels alone all of a sudden. Tiny, scared, and alone. It’s ridiculous—it was just a small, stupid crush—but the fact that she will never, _never_ get a chance to be with him now… the soulmate spell made sure of that… 

It feels like a curse.

A pain flares up in her right hand. It’s so unexpected that she lets out a squawk, squeezing the life out of her arm.

When she looks down, she does a double take. 

_NIC ._

Two more letters have appeared next to the first.

_NIC._

_NIC._

_NIC._

She slaps her hand over her mouth. 

Afraid she might start crying, she runs out of the room.


End file.
